by Ian Rankin
‘Not necessarily.’
‘I’ve always loved that positive attitude of yours.’
‘That used to be my line.’ She paused, then asked him what he reckoned it all meant.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Worth another word in Dempsey’s ear?’
He gave a shrug and concentrated on his beer. Clarke checked the time on her phone.
‘A quick one?’ Rebus suggested.
‘Got a home life waiting for me,’ she said with a shake of the head.
‘Meaning . . .?’
‘Post to open, bills to pay, washing to do.’
He nodded his understanding and glanced at his watch: he’d left it too late to collect his own laundry. ‘We’ll catch up again soon,’ he said.
She had risen to her feet and extended her right hand towards him. Rebus took it and they shook, though it felt wrong, too formal. Was it her way of saying that their time together was done? Before he could ask, she was gone.
‘Just you and me, eh?’ he said to his pint glass. ‘Same as it ever was.’ Then he leaned back and focused his attention on the wall opposite, thinking some more about Gregor Magrath, and families, and secrets.
It was mid evening at Jo-Jo Binkie’s. Frank Hammell had gone to see his dentist earlier for some repair work. Nobody had dared to ask him about the cuts on his face. He was watching from the balcony as the DJ twitched and danced behind his decks. Not that the man played records – it was all CDs, MP3s and laptops. The music wasn’t to Hammell’s taste, but Darryl was after a younger crowd, a crowd less careful with its money. The place was hipper these days, and people came from all over – sometimes in coaches from out west or Fife or the borders. A few dozen dancers gyrated below; Hammell checked out the talent. There was one skinny blonde, he could almost see down the front of her short, low-cut dress.
Almost.
A couple of staffers patrolled the periphery, on the lookout for trouble. Hammell didn’t know their names. They were new. Almost everybody was new. Darryl had explained – people not turning up on time; people bad-mouthing Hammell behind his back: they had to be replaced. People too old to handle the job; people who didn’t pull their weight. Tonight, as Hammell had walked into his own club, he hadn’t recognised a single person working the door. Even Rob the Reliable had gone AWOL. It was the same with the staff at his pubs: out with the old and in with the new. Darryl called it ‘refreshing the brand’. Still, there was money coming in – no mean feat in a recession, as Darryl himself had suggested – and thanks to some creative accounting, not all of it went out again.
Hammell ran his tongue over the replacement filling. It didn’t seem quite smooth, but he liked the coarseness. He felt movement next to him and turned to see Darryl himself standing there. Hammell patted the young man’s upper arm in greeting.
‘Not a bad crowd for a week night,’ he said over the music.
‘It’ll get busier,’ Darryl stated. He was in another new-looking suit, dark, with a pale-green shirt beneath.
‘Where’s Rob tonight?’
Darryl turned his attention from the dancers to his employer. ‘I had to let him go,’ he said.
Hammell lifted an eyebrow. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing happened. But with you up north, it made it easier for me to tell him to take a walk. He got a bit of money, same as the others.’
‘He was a good guy.’
‘He was your guy, Frank, that was Rob’s problem.’ Christie gestured towards the dance floor. ‘Now it’s all my guys.’
Hammell pulled back his shoulders and bunched his fists. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Darryl Christie answered with a cold smile. ‘You’re out, Frank, that’s what’s going on. I’ve got some paperwork arriving from your lawyer – now my lawyer, too. You’re going to sell me your entire business for one pound sterling.’
‘You little shit bag, get your arse out of here.’ Hammell was standing toe to toe with him, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth. ‘After all I’ve done for you? Ungrateful wee bastard.’ He jerked a thumb towards the stairwell. ‘Go on, before I rip your head from your fucking neck!’
‘Look again,’ Christie said calmly. Hammell looked, and saw three men appearing at the top of the stairs. Doormen. Men whose names and faces he didn’t know. Darryl Christie’s men.
‘I’ve got everything,’ Christie went on, his voice still icy calm. ‘Passwords, account details, everything. The offshore banks, the numbers you don’t think anyone knows about. It did for Al Capone and it’ll do for you. Taxman’ll have a field day.’
‘What’s your mum going to say?’
‘Not one damned thing, because you’re not going near her again. You’re steering clear of my family from now on.’ Christie paused. ‘Unless you want me to tell her about you and my sister.’
Hammell’s face froze.
‘It was Annette who told me,’ Christie went on. ‘That’s how she was – no way she could keep it to herself. I nearly whacked you over the back of the head for that – that and everything else.’
‘There’s not a chance in hell of me signing anything.’
‘Then a memory stick arrives at HMRC sometime tomorrow. Not even enough time for you to leave the country – not when I’ve got your passport in the same safe place as everything else.’
The three doormen were standing behind Hammell, awaiting orders. When Hammell made his move, they grabbed him by the shoulders, stopping him from getting to their employer.
‘I made you who you are,’ Hammell growled, trying to wrestle free. ‘Gave you a job, took you to my house . . .’
‘And pretty soon I’ll have a house just like it,’ Christie said. ‘But there’ll always be a difference between us.’
Hammell glared at him. ‘What?’ he couldn’t help asking. Christie leaned closer.
‘I won’t trust anyone,’ he confided, gesturing for the doormen to take Hammell to the office.
‘I’m signing fuck all!’ Hammell called out as he was led away. But he would sign, Darryl was sure of it. He rested his forearms on the balcony as he entered the text into his phone. It was to his father, and the message was succinct.
All done and dusted.
Even though he knew that wasn’t quite the case.
59
Having managed a broken night’s sleep, Rebus arrived at the Fettes HQ car park to find it half empty. The sky wasn’t fully light yet, street lamps still burning. He locked his car and entered the building. The main reception was manned by the same officer who’d called up to SCRU that first day to tell him there was a visitor downstairs for DI Magrath. Another member of the team might have answered, or Rebus could have been on a cigarette break.
And everything would have been different.
He took the stairs rather than the lift – every little bit helped, as his doctor had told him at his last check-up. Even so, he needed the help of the banister and a breather at the halfway stage. The corridor was deserted, as were the offices he passed. He opened the door to SCRU and stood on the threshold. The place was frozen in time – half-filled crates; waste bin emptied by a cleaner and waiting to be used again; marker pens and paper clips; mugs needing to be rinsed. At his desk he found a clean sheet of paper, dated it, and jotted down the barest details of his meeting with Sally Hazlitt. Then he signed it and opened her case file, clipping it to the inside front cover. Cowan’s desk, he noticed, was as tidy as ever – just in case any of the brass decided to drop by. There was a stapler with the name COWAN on it; Cowan had purchased it himself after each and every one of its predecessors had gone missing. Rebus lifted it from the desk and pocketed it, same as with the others, then headed out of the office and back down the stairs.
It wasn’t a bad day for a drive and he wasn’t in the mood for stopping. He’d filled the Saab on his way to Fettes and knew it was good for the trip north. He promised himself he would book the old warhorse in for a full service and valeting when this was all fin
ished, a little reward for its efforts. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, Nazareth on the CD player, Rebus drove. He wasn’t really thinking about anything other than the journey and its punctuations: the moment a particular section of dual carriageway ended; the passing of landmarks such as the Pitlochry roadworks and House of Bruar; familiar signposts pointing him to places he would most likely never visit, such as the Waltzing Waters and Killiecrankie. There was still a good covering of snow on most of the hills. Sheep continued to graze, inured to the passing parade of trucks, vans and cars. Rebus remembered Siobhan Clarke’s words as they drove towards Chanonry Point: it’s an odd little country this . . . hard to fathom. She’d accused him of coming over all defensive – well, it was a natural enough reaction, but in fact he agreed with her. A nation of five million huddled together as if cowed by the elements and the immensity of the landscape surrounding them, clinging to notions of community and shared history, some of them identified or hinted at in the book of legends Nina Hazlitt had given him. Even bogeymen were useful, because if there was a ‘them’, there was also an ‘us’, and if there was a ‘them’, there was someone to blame . . .
Aviemore.
Inverness.
Kessock Bridge.
Then Munlochy, Avoch, Fortrose.
Arriving finally at his destination: the row of houses fronting the coastline at Rosemarkie.
There was no sign of Gregor Magrath in the sun porch. The venerable olive-green Land Rover was parked in the same spot as before. Rebus knocked on the door of the cottage and waited. When there was no answer, he peered in through the living room window, noting no movement within. He could just about make out the framed photos on the bookcase. Straightening up, he fought the elements to get a cigarette lit, then stood beside his cooling Saab, gazing towards the distant shore. A dog was barking on the beach, way over to Rebus’s right, its owner lagging many dozens of yards behind. There was a figure by the water’s edge. Rebus shielded his eyes and watched as the man continued to trudge along the tide line. Not bothering to lock the car, he headed in the same direction, the wind flinging granules into his face.
‘Mr Magrath!’ he called. Magrath turned towards him, but then seemed to dismiss him. He had his back to Rebus when Rebus called his name a second time.
‘You again.’ Magrath sounded irritated. He was digging the toe of one shoe into the wet sand, watching each new indentation fill with seawater.
‘What’s the matter?’ Rebus asked. ‘Can’t bear to look me in the eye?’
Magrath accepted the challenge, the two men standing in silence for a moment.
‘How come nobody knows about your brother?’ Rebus enquired, dropping his voice.
‘Kenny? Everybody knows Kenny.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Up here, maybe. But all the times you’ve spoken to Peter Bliss on the phone . . . and all the years you were at SCRU . . . and when Bliss visited you and I came to your house that last time . . .’ Magrath had broken off eye contact, his interest shifting back to the beach beneath his feet. He opened his mouth but said nothing. The only sounds were the breaking of the waves and the stropping of the wind.
‘You’ve always been so interested in SCRU’s caseload, pestering your pal Bliss for details.’
‘Didn’t I start the blessed thing?’ Magrath complained.
‘You did,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But I think there’s more to it than that. A woman called Nina Hazlitt comes to your office one day, and soon afterwards you decide to retire – surprising everyone. SCRU is your baby, and suddenly you don’t want it any more. You’re moving north, moving near to your brother. Not that you’re explaining it to anyone or mentioning his name . . .’ When Magrath said nothing, Rebus went on. ‘Nina Hazlitt came to see you because she thought she’d found a thread connecting her daughter’s disappearance to that of Brigid Young. That thread was the A9 itself. She reckons you were kind to her, in that you listened to her story. But you yourself said it – you didn’t make any actual progress, didn’t manage to get anyone else interested in the case.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’m wondering if you even tried.’
Magrath flinched at this and began to trudge back up the beach, Rebus close behind.
‘Your brother does some work at Jim Mellon’s farm. He knows the area pretty well, I’d guess, the amount of driving he must do between jobs.’
‘What are you getting at?’ Magrath’s pace had increased and he was breathing heavily.
‘We both know,’ Rebus said.
‘I’ve not the faintest bloody idea!’
‘Which house is Kenny’s, Mr Magrath? I’d like to have a word with him.’
‘Just leave us alone.’
‘Mr Magrath . . .’
The man stopped and spun towards Rebus. ‘Can I see your warrant card? I can’t, can I? Because you’re not a bloody cop! Maybe I should phone and register a complaint. Go back home, Rebus. Just leave us be!’
He stomped away again, Rebus at his heels.
‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ Rebus enquired. He received no answer. ‘Fine, if you want Dempsey and her team here, that can be arranged.’
Magrath had climbed the concrete steps connecting beach to roadway and was making for his cottage, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket.
‘You brought Peter Bliss into SCRU,’ Rebus persisted, ‘so he could be your eyes and ears. That way you’d always know which cases were being reopened. Of course, you could have achieved the selfsame result by staying put, but you needed to be here, somewhere near your brother, rather than the hot countries you preferred. Blood’s thicker than suntan oil, eh, Gregor?’
‘I’m not listening to you.’
‘Just think for a second,’ Rebus argued. ‘It’s a lot easier this way.’
But the door was slammed shut in his face. He watched through the glass as Magrath opened a second door and disappeared into the body of the house. There was a newspaper on the chair inside the porch, folded open at the latest report on the Edderton case. The papers spilling across the floor seemed to be open at similar stories. Rebus thumped on the door with his fist, then rattled the letter box. After a few moments, he took a step back and approached the living room window, just in time to see Gregor Magrath drag the curtains closed. He waited a full minute, then walked to the next cottage along and rang the doorbell. A woman who looked to be in her eighties answered, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘Sorry,’ Rebus told her with a smile, ‘I was looking for Mr Magrath.’
‘He lives next door.’
‘I mean Kenny – the electrician.’
She pointed along the street. ‘The garden with the swing,’ she explained. ‘But the front door’s round the far side.’
Rebus thanked her and began to stride along the seafront. Beyond the row of cottages stood a few modern detached houses with steeply sloping gardens. The neighbour was right: these homes backed on to the view. Someone had added an octagonal conservatory to one, in front of which stood a metal frame for a swing, but with its seat missing, the frame itself rusting. Rebus headed up the lane at the end of the promenade and then took a left until he found the front door he was looking for. He pressed the bell and heard it ringing somewhere inside. A middle-aged woman opened the door.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I’m looking for Kenny Magrath.’
‘He’s at work. Is it to do with a job?’
‘When will he be back?’
Her face remained friendly but puzzled. She had a rounded, pleasing figure and curly auburn hair, her eyes the same olive green as her brother-in-law’s Land Rover.
‘Is it something I can help you with?’ she asked.
Rebus took out his ID and held it towards her. ‘I’m with the Edderton team,’ he explained. ‘Your husband was out at Jim Mellon’s farm yesterday.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It just occurred to us, the job he does, he might have noticed any suspicious activity or a stranger in the area.’
; ‘Well, he’d have said something, wouldn’t he?’ Her eyes had narrowed a little.
‘Maybe he would,’ Rebus countered. ‘But sometimes you don’t remember something until you’re asked about it.’
‘Really?’ She took a moment to consider this. Rebus decided to fill the silence with another question.
‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Magrath?’
‘All my life.’
‘Been married a while?’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she said, making a joke of it.
Rebus managed a big, friendly smile. ‘You’ve got a couple of kids?’
Her demeanour stiffened.
‘I saw photos at Gregor Magrath’s house,’ he explained. ‘Are they still at home?’
‘They’re in their twenties.’ She had relaxed a little. ‘One’s in Inverness, the other Glasgow. So you’ve been talking to Gregor?’
‘Not officially. I work with one of his old colleagues. The colleague told me to drop by and say hello.’
She seemed to have made up her mind about him. Taking a step back into the hall, she asked if he wanted to come in.
‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ she said. ‘Kenny said he’d be home around one for a pit stop. The kettle’s already on . . .’
The house was bright and well furnished. Plenty of framed photos on the living room walls, mostly of the offspring in every stage of development from cradle to graduation. Rebus tried not to look as though he was snooping.
‘Does your husband work from a shop?’ he asked.
‘More a sort of shed – just somewhere he can store all his bits and pieces.’
‘That’s near here, is it?’
She nodded. ‘Opposite the pub.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I didn’t seem to catch your name.’
‘Rebus,’ he said.
‘Rebus?’
‘It’s Polish, if you care to go back far enough.’
‘Lots of Poles in Scotland just now. Kenny’s noticed it in the building trade.’